Epyllion

Cloaked in the lingering storm clouds of summer rain
She softly treads above the mists of the citys gaslights -
Her feet are sore from running in the eyes of hurricanes
And her muscles tremble from being starved of life

The streets are abandoned and filled with echoes;
Windows are boarded up with planks of wood
And only the wind shouts the tale of misfortune
Of a plague that has rendered bustling apartments still

Rats nest in the cracks and debris of the solemn city
And live off of the rotten and the tainted water;
Infested by wrecks and tragedies, she moves on
Remembering - - -

How the children used to run with so much joy
While old couples would tend to their gardens
And the occasional street musician played for mere change
(Why did she never hear the screams of the dying?)

Dying twice, without any resurrection, her hands touch
The side of Apartment #22, though her senses are gone
She finds even the most minute memories consolable:
If she were alive she could (would) weep in remorse

Then in the fog, she sees life peering through;
An elderly man sitting on the stoop -
His clothes badly patched, his eyes full of waiting -
Casting fortune beside him for her to return